


Your Ghost

by clueforlooks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: After Life, M/M, Second person POV, Suicide, ghost - Freeform, post reichenbach fall, soft john, you are sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clueforlooks/pseuds/clueforlooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inspired by Radiohead's How To Disappear Completely, the line "I'm not here this isn't happening," featured in this. I highly recommend listening as you read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Ghost

_Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake UP._

You were awake and you were watching him, kneeling beside him and yourself. You didn't notice yourself, repressing your final living memory and directing all your attention to him. He was clinging to you, but you couldn't feel him. He sobbed and you couldn't figure out why. His hands were drenched in blood but not his own: it was yours and you didn't know why and how. He held your head, your eyes were open and vacant. He clutched your hair, dripping and drenched in blood and sweat. He set his head on your chest, shattered and still, struggling to listen for a hopeful beat to cling to. Your chest was hollow, cracked from when you hit the concrete. He didn't want to say it: you were dead. You didn't want to pay attention to your own body: heavy and broken in his arms.

You reached for him. You wanted to comfort him, to hold him like he held you. You wanted to explain everything even though you knew the likelihood of him listening was minuscule, if he even could hear you. You imagined what it would be like: you would explain everything in great detail and he wouldn't hear a single thing, only concentrating solely on his anger. You wanted to tell him everything. Not just about The Fall, but everything leading up to now. Everything.

It hit him. It hit him the same time it hit you. Realisation that this would be the end.You were dead. The repetitive demand to wake up echoed in your skull. You screamed but he couldn't hear you. You both were on different frequencies, never to touch again. You knew this, but you still tried to embrace him, your arms passing through him as if he was nothing more than water. You would try and touch him, to feel him one more time, to calculate and memorise every inch of him. Realisation dawned over you, as it did him. He shook you, or what was once you. Your head hit the concrete again and again and again and again with each shake. Your eyes were still open.

A crowd formed around you and him, flashes going off and chaos caving in. Paramedics were going to arrive any moment and he knew they would take your body from him. He sobbed: a man with nerves of steel sobbed into your scarf. You were left to watch. He cradled your head, his hands shaking and stained in your blood. He moved your hair from your ears, and whispered. He whispered comforting words, not necessarily for you but more for himself.

_Everything is okay. Wake up. Your brother will be worried sick. Wake up. Mrs. Hudson will be scared out of her wits if you're home late again. Wake up. I love you. Wake up. I love you. Wake UP. I've always loved you. Wake. Up._

You heard him. You heard everything. You heard him say what you've longed to say to him since the confrontation between you and Moriarty, where you thought he would explode and it would be your fault. He beat you to it, he said he loved you and thought you weren't listening. His hands still shook as he dabbed at the bloodiest parts of your face with your own scarf. You imagined how cold your skin must have been, the contrast between bitter cold death and the occasional feverish tear that would roll from his face onto yours.

He kissed your temple, and the crowd and photographers were still. He kissed your forehead, he said he was sorry and that he loved you. He kissed your cheek and asked for you to wake up. He kissed your nose and said he wouldn't be mad. He looked at your eyes, not into your eyes, because he was too afraid of feeling anything more than he did now. He looked at your eyes, eyes that stared into space and would forever see everything and never let a single thing go unnoticed nor a single observation remain unspoken. He closed your eyes, hoping he was the last thing you saw. He kissed you and you weren't there for your own first kiss. He kissed you until the paramedics arrived.

They put you into a bag, the black bags you would once open and it felt like unraveling a Christmas present. You watched them set your body into the back of the ambulance as a familiar sound was heard from within the car: music. Not just any music, but music from your favourite band when you were a Sophomore at the university. It was Radiohead, How To Disappear Completely. Your heart practically disintegrated the moment you crashed into the pavement, yet you felt something as the song played in the background as subtle as the sobs that escaped your flatmate.

_I'm not here_

_this isn't happening_

He remained crouched, knees in your puddle of blood, a familiar shade of blue his face was buried in: your scarf. He clung to your scarf as if it were you and he loved it. You sat by him, pretending to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and you think about the fact that he will never know how much you loved him.

You pretend you're still alive. He pretends, too. He talked to you, and you would respond, even though you knew he couldn't hear you. Every morning he would wake up and say your name. Every meal he would look up and expect you making sour faces at god knows what until you would ramble on about observations and how everyone was an idiot. Everytime he left the house he would wrap your scarf around him tightly; believing it was you embracing him as a struggle to keep him warm and alive. Every 15 minutes he would smell your scarf and pretend you were by him. Every night he would think about you before he went to bed. At 02:37 every night he woke up in a cold sweat and cried until 04:52.

You knew this. You knew how he lived, because you still lived with him. When he would wake up at night and sob, you wished he knew you slept by his side. When he smelt your scarf, you wish he knew you laughed and would hug him as best you could. When he walked, you wished he knew you would hold his hand. Every meal, you would comment on his clothes, low long it's been since he shaved, why he bought a new candle that smelt like apricots knowing that you hated apricots, why he's binge watched all of the documentaries you've collected without asking. Every night when he'd sleep, you would tell him you loved him and would kiss him as he did with you outside St. Barts. Every night in his sleep, he'd say he loved you and slept with a smile until 02:37.

 

 

He was strong. He was selfless and brave and he was strong and you knew that. That's why you cried when you were by his side as he decided to take one last case in your honour and died two blocks from the bloodstained pavement where you died. He didn't die as quickly as you did; immediate contact with the ground, crushing every vital organ and bone. Instead, he shrivelled on the sidewalk, the unnamed criminal's knife still plunged into his stomach. You were there, holding him as he held you two years ago when you died.

You were mad, no, you were irate. Livid. You couldn't touch him because you were dead and he was going to die in front of you, and you couldn't even help him. You cried, you shook him and even though he couldn't feel you, you shook and beat and screamed at him to remain alive. He took a shaky breath that he never expected to be his last and looked into your eyes. He can't see me, you thought, but he looked up at you as if you were the only remaining star in the galaxy; with honour and appreciation and admiration and glory. He looked at you the way you've looked at him since you've died. He smiled, a smile with blood in his teeth and tears in his eyes. Sirens were heard as he took his last breath and the final thing the face of the planet witnessed of him was his smile.

John Watson died on November 23, 14:13. You watched as stiff as a statue as they put him in the same bag they put you in years ago. You sat on the curb and watched as the ambulance took him away from you and you realised that you would never see him again. Days turned into weeks of unbearable loneliness and depression. December 19, you visited St. Barts. You could still see where you fell, even though they've tried their best to scrub at your blood. You're numb, you cannot feel anything: besides a tap on your left shoulder. You haven't come in contact with any human being in years, however this tap was not from any human. You turn around and almost die again as he embraces you, clinging to you as if your 'life' depended on it. You hold him, tears swelling in your eyes. You knew how he has felt about you, and it was your turn to tell him.

_I'm in love with you. I heard everything you said to me in this exact spot where we stand those years ago and never have I forgotten, nor will I. Every waking moment I spoke to you and held you. Every night while you wept and sobbed and relived The Fall, I was by your side. I have never left your side for a single moment and when you died I tried to hold you, i really tried my best I am so sorry. Please forgive me for leaving you, I am sorry. I am in love with you and I want nothing more tha-_

You were interrupted by his hands in your hair and his lips against your own. The moment you both have waited on for years has finally arrived as you smile against his lips. You felt him laugh and smile as he buried his face into your neck. People walked by, oblivious of the reunion of you and your doctor.

You both return to Baker Street where you can feel each other for the first time in ages and he is in love with you as you play your violin and you are in love with him as he reads the paper to you. Hearts might have stopped, blood might have been shed, and bodies might have perished, but you both have agreed on one thing: never have you both felt more alive than you do now, finally together, since the moment you shook hands and saved each others lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time reading this, I hope it was not wasted and you enjoyed it.


End file.
